


Let the truth ring (but not the telephone)

by BakedAppleSauce



Series: The desert is a waste of time [14]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alfie has some issues as well, Developing Relationship, Fighting, Jealousy, M/M, Nobody has any idea that's what's happening, Ollie gets a personality, Porn with Feelings, Soooo... it's a terrible combination really, everybody has a lot of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-06-30 03:42:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19844842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakedAppleSauce/pseuds/BakedAppleSauce
Summary: There’s something resembling recognition dawning on Tommy's face now, expression shifting from arousal-dazed to something sharper, more alert. He’s actually planning on answering the fucking telephone, Alfie realizes, with a mixture of blank rage and absolute incredulity – because Alfie is sleeping with an insane person, which is something he is aware of, yes, but that doesn't mean he appreciates the reminder when he’s balls deep.In which the telephone keeps ringing and some people freak the fuck out.(Stand-alone, set somewhere in the near future, part of a bigger overall AU.)





	1. Chapter 1

They’re fucking when the telephone rings.

This is a tragedy for a number of different reasons: One, they’re fucking. Two, it has to be almost midnight at this point. Three, they’re in Tommy’s _hotel room,_ for fuck’s sake. (Four, they’re fucking.) Five, the phone is all the way over there, on the other side of the room. Six, this is the first time they’ve seen each other in almost a month. Seven… well, Alfie will probably be able to think of something as soon as his brain is fully functioning again.

Tommy doesn’t even seem to notice at first – which means the whole thing is basically Alfie’s fault, because Alfie _does_ notice and subsequently stops what he’s doing, to turn his head and blink over at the telephone in disbelief.

“Wha-” Tommy says above him, sounding very irritated.

As usual, he looks like a wet fucking dream – out of breath and with his hair sticking to his forehead, muscles in his abdomen and thighs visibly tense from holding the position he’s in, face and chest flushed with exertion, Alfie’s cock buried as deep inside of him as it can go – but that’s par for the course, really, Alfie can’t exactly fault him for that, because he’s physically _incapable_ of looking like anything else. (It’s a proven fact at this point, it’s literally impossible.)

“M’assuming that’s for you, yeah?” Alfie says, after they’ve stared in the direction of the noise for a few speechless seconds.

The telephone, being an inanimate object and therefore completely unaware of its horrid timing, keeps on ringing. Alfie thinks very unkind thoughts at whoever is on the other end of the line. They better have a bloody excellent reason for being this persistent. (Maybe Birmingham is on fire. One can only hope.)

There’s something resembling recognition dawning on Tommy's face now, expression shifting from arousal-dazed to something sharper, more alert. He’s actually planning on answering the fucking telephone, Alfie realizes, with a mixture of blank rage and absolute incredulity – because Alfie is sleeping with an insane person, which is something he is aware of, yes, but that doesn't mean he appreciates the reminder when he’s balls deep.

“Oh, what the fuck are you doing,” he groans, even though he knows the answer already, what with it being of the bleedingly obvious variety and all.

“I have, I have to get that,” Tommy says and starts to lift up and away – his hands on Alfie's chest satisfyingly unsteady, at least – letting Alfie's cock slip out of him, and then adds “That’s Moss.” like that is a reasonable explanation, like that is supposed to fucking _mean_ something.

“Well, yeah, no, ‘course, if it is _Moss,”_ and as Alfie says it, he realizes that the name does sound vaguely familiar. (Might have something to do with Birmingham police, but don’t quote him on that.) “Then by all fucking means, right, go and answer the man, why don’t you, this clearly takes bloody priority-” but Tommy is not even listening anymore.

He’s halfway across the room already – didn’t even bother to put anything on, which probably means he doesn’t expect the call to last long and also that he plans to continue doing what they have been doing when he is done. It’s some consolation, Alfie supposes.

“Yes,” Tommy tells the person on the other end of the line. “It’s me, what have you got?”

There is long pause. He’s listening intently, brow furrowed in concentration.

“No,” he says then, and even though he’s not looking in the direction of the bed, Alfie is well aware that he’s choosing every word carefully, so as to not give anything of the actual contents of the conversation away to him. “No, don’t do that. Just keep… yeah, exactly.”

Alfie idly wonders what they could be talking about – might as well, honestly, if he’s supposed to just wait here, like some sad and unusual excuse for a prostitute. (A stupid one at that, seeing as he’s doing this free of charge and all.) Probably something that’s at least skirting the limits of legality, if he had to guess, given the time and the place, even _if_ the guy on the other end is a policeman. _Especially_ if the guy is a policeman, actually, since again – the time and the place don’t exactly lend themselves to official business being conducted, here.

“Not yet,” Tommy says. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s fine.”

Might have something to do with the shipyard he’s in the process of building, maybe. Alfie has no doubt that most of that is above the table and perfectly legal, but there is always _something,_ isn’t there, especially during construction. He considers yelling something embarrassing across the room, just for fun, because it probably wouldn’t even be intelligible on the other end of the line, but it would annoy Tommy to no end.

Except Tommy’s eyes snap upwards, all of a sudden, boring into his, like he fucking _divined_ the sentiment somehow and is shutting it down immediately. It’s almost impressive. Alfie raises an innocent eyebrow at him – _who me?_ – and heaves himself upright, to put his feet on the floor and sit on the edge of the bed.

Tommy leans a hip against the side table that has the telephone on it, still watching him. His eyes flicker downwards, taking in Alfie’s naked body, looking him up and down like there actually is something to see – and if Alfie is perfectly honest, he just doesn’t get it. (The way Tommy tends to stare sometimes, Alfie figures he probably hit his head one too many times – which is fine with Alfie, he’s not going to complain about that, because he’s not an idiot, it’s just… kind of baffling on every level. He _knows_ what he looks like, after all, and there is seriously nothing to him that would warrant… any of that.)

“I’ll be in touch,” Tommy tells whoever is on the other line, and “Right. As you were.” before he hangs up without even saying goodbye, which is a bit rude, Alfie thinks, but it’s not like good manners are a Shelby staple, generally speaking.

“What was that about, then?” he says guilelessly, fully aware of the fact that he’s not going to get a real answer. Tommy tilts his head at him, face blank and impassive.

“Weather forecast,” he says, completely serious. He’s ambling back over to the bed now, all hard lines, sinew and bone, not an ounce of excess on him.

“Is that right,” Alfie says, trying not to grin. “So we can expect… what? Sunshine, hail, thunderstorms? Frogs falling from the skies?”

Tommy climbs into his lap, legs spread wide over Alfie’s thighs, and kisses him – probably to shut him up as much as anything, Alfie suspects, which is perfectly fine with him, it’s not like he was going somewhere important with that. They just do that for a while, Alfie with his arms wrapped around him, cocks nestled close together between their bodies. Gradually, everything turns hot and heavy again – they’re rocking against each other, Alfie opening his mouth to let Tommy push his tongue inside, lick against his own.

Which is when the fucking telephone rings _again._

Alfie initial gut reaction isn’t even anger or impatience; he is simply amazed at the terribleness of it all.

“What the _fuck,”_ Tommy says breathlessly, pushing away from him and staring over at the telephone with barely concealed fury. The turning of his head puts the long line of his neck on display, so Alfie scrapes his teeth over the pulse point, which makes Tommy hiss and rock his hips forwards. 

“You’re asking me?” Alfie murmurs against the delicate skin of his neck, making him twitch. “S’your bloody room, mate.”

“Fucking _hell,”_ Tommy says, flushed and irritated, and clambers out of Alfie’s lap again, which is at the same time entirely predictable and a horrible injustice on every level. Alfie lets his head hang low, sighing deeply. Of _course_ he’s going to answer it, he thinks, feeling strangely fond and annoyed at the same time, of course he fucking is.

“Yes,” Tommy says when he answers the phone, a lot less patient than the first time around. “It’s me, what?”

Then his face changes, expression morphing into something calmer and more exasperated at the same time, shoulders relaxing a bit as he listens.

“Yes, John,” he says, which explains _everything,_ really, including the fuck-awful timing. “I already heard. Yeah.”

There is a short pause, during which he actually rolls his eyes at one point, before he says, “Should be back tomorrow. You can go ahead if you want, I don’t care.”

Alfie scrubs a hand through his hair, scratching the back of his head, and tries to be patient about this. Could just fuck him bent over the side table with the telephone on it, he thinks. Might be the most practical solution to a really stupid problem – except he doesn’t really feel like doing all the work and also, Tommy might actually slap him if he tries that. He is still intently listening to something his brother is saying, making an affirmative noise from time to time.

Alfie lets himself slump forward, elbows resting on his knees, rubbing his palms together absentmindedly. Tommy’s focus shifts back to him at that, gaze drawn to the movement of Alfie’s hands, then further up to his arms and his shoulders, and honestly, Alfie thinks, mystified, what the fuck is he even looking at. This is fucking ridiculous.

“All right,” Tommy says eventually. “Fine by me. Yeah. Bye.”

He hangs up and makes his way back to the bed, coming to a stop standing between Alfie’s legs. Alfie fits both hands around his hips, thumbs stroking over the sharp jut of his hipbones. Tommy makes a small, content sound at that – he’s slowly getting hard again, even though there is hardly any contact at all.

“That the weather forecast again?” Alfie says.

“Yes,” Tommy mutters, clearly not interested in continuing the conversation. He’s trying to move forward, but Alfie tightens his grip warningly.

“What kind of weather we’re gonna have then, hm,” he says, trying not to grin at how thoroughly unamused Tommy looks.

“Rain all the way,” Tommy says. He grips Alfie’s wrists, trying to pull his hands away. Alfie resists for a few seconds before he gives in, lets Tommy clamber back into his lap – and Tommy practically _melts_ against him after that, wraps his arms around Alfie’s shoulders and then they’re kissing again, hot and slow and thorough. _God,_ Alfie thinks, pulling him in, hands roaming over warm skin, he wants to be back inside him, wants to fuck him for hours-

Which is when the godforsaken fucking piece of shit that is the telephone decides to ring. _Again._

They separate a few inches, breathing heavily. Neither one of them seems to be willing to move.

“Rain, was it?” Alfie says, and Tommy mutters, “Shut up.” before climbing off him again, visibly shaky this time, which is somewhat gratifying. He goes over to answer the phone and growls “Yes, what _now?”_ at whoever is on the other line.

Then he freezes.

Holds out the earpiece and stares at it like he’s never seen it before, then he stares at Alfie, then at the earpiece again. He looks… stunned. Alfie can feel himself start to frown.

“What?” he says.

“It’s for you,” Tommy says, clear disbelief in his voice, which… Alfie gets where he’s coming from, in all honesty.

“What?”

“It’s for you,” Tommy repeats, sounding a lot surer this time, holding the earpiece out in Alfie’s direction. “It’s your- it’s Ollie.”

“What?” Alfie says for a third time. None of this makes any sense at all. His driver knows where he is, because he dropped him off and sure, Ollie could’ve easily asked him – could’ve probably _guessed_ the hotel, too, since Tommy is in the habit of staying at the same one, so _Alfie_ has been coming to the same one as a direct result, but none of those things explain the fucking _why_ of the situation, do they.

He gets up slowly with a low, rumbling noise and wanders over, taking the phone out of Tommy’s hands and sure enough, it’s Ollie.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” is the first thing he says.

“Explain,” Alfie tells him, trying to ignore the way Tommy is still standing right there, with his arms crossed, looking murderous.

“Yeah, of course – you know I would never call if it wasn’t-”

 _“Not_ what I fucking meant by that, hm?” Alfie interrupts him.

“Right, well I, I asked for Shelby at the reception,” Ollie says, switching tac immediately. “And they put me through-”

“Ollie,” Alfie says as patiently as he can. “And believe you me, mate, when I say that I’m telling you this for your own well-being, right, since I’m a very caring person – there better be something on bloody _fire.”_

There is very telling pause.

“Fuckin’ _hell”_ Alfie says, and Tommy still hasn’t moved, which is really inconsiderate considering, because Alfie at least _pretended_ to give him is privacy when he was conducting _his_ important, business-related telephone calls.

“Well, no, there… there _might_ have been. Something on fire.”

“Might have been?”

“Was.”

“For fuck’s sake!”

“It’s fine now,” Ollie says hastily, which begs the question of why the fuck he’s calling. (Except no, Alfie thinks, he’s probably right to let him know; it just doesn’t fucking feel that way right now, because… well. Because of the idiot glaring daggers at him right this very moment and because of all the things he could be doing with said idiot instead.) “It’s just… they, they were trying to set up the new still, right-”

And Alfie can see where this is going now, setting the mouthpiece down to rub his forehead, it’s as clear to him as the fucking day. (He’s going to have to strangle some people, he thinks. It’s very fucking obvious.)

“And I don’t even know what happened, really, but… _something_ happened, and they… I mean, they managed to put it out right away.”

Which, _no shit,_ Alfie thinks, the rest of London probably would have noticed if the whole bakery had gone up. He grabs the mouthpiece again as the next logical consequence occurs to him.

“Anybody stupid enough to call the fucking fire brigade?”

“Of course not!”

“Good.”

Tommy is still standing right there, barely even an arm’s length away, mouth a thin, angry line and it’s honestly getting annoying. Alfie was a lot more tactful when their roles were reversed, which isn’t something that comes natural to him, right, so he doesn’t fucking appreciate the fact that Tommy isn’t even trying right now.

“Well, this has been very informative, right, really has been,” he tells Ollie. “But we’re gonna have to discuss this at a later point in time, mate. Goodbye.”

Ollie is already trying to say something else, probably apologize again, but Alfie hangs up on him.

“So,” he says. “Front seat working for you, is it? Yeah? Didn’t miss anything?”

“Oh, _fuck_ _you,”_ Tommy growls, sounding completely pissed off now.

“Yeah, well, s’not like I haven’t been fucking trying to _do that,”_ Alfie hisses back.

They’re staring at each other for a long, furious second – and then Tommy closes the distance and almost bodily slams into him, pushing him backwards. Alfie goes, lets himself be pushed backwards and then onto the bed (somewhat graceless, he’s not ashamed to admit) and then keeps going until he’s settled with his back against the headboard.

It’s one of those strange moments where, inexplicably, miraculously, they’re one hundred percent on the same page – make that one hundred and ten percent, even, because Tommy grabs the oil and Alfie grabs the back of his neck and then they’re kissing and fumbling with everything at the same time.

Tommy lines him up and then sinks down, fucking _fuck,_ and it takes every ounce of willpower Alfie has ever had to not just mindlessly shove up, but it doesn’t matter anyway, because Tommy takes him so fucking easily – and Alfie _has_ to grab him by the hips with both hands, has to forcefully hold him down and not let him move for a full ten seconds, even though Tommy makes a furious noise against his mouth and tries to move anyway.

They get to it without preamble after that – fuck without any finesse whatsoever, straining against each other and hissing with pleasure. It doesn’t last very long, which seems about right considering their current pace. (And quite frankly, the general amount of, well, _fuckery_ that has happened beforehand.)

“Oh, Jesus _fucking Christ,”_ Tommy pants, movements becoming erratic, and Alfie is not even sure it’s necessary at this point, but he fists Tommy’s cock for good measure anyway, ‘cause it never hurts to do the considerate thing, does it. Tommy slams a hand against the wall above the headboard, clutches at Alfie’s shoulder with the other, digging his fingers in so hard it actually hurts and _fuck,_ he is so _slick_ with pre-come there’s almost no friction at all.

Arousal hits Alfie like a gut punch.

 _God,_ he wants him to _lose_ it, wants him to come his _fucking brains out,_ until he doesn’t even remember his own name anymore; because he doesn’t fucking need it anyway, does he, stupid boy with his stupid telephone calls – all he needs to do is come on Alfie’s cock like he was born for that purpose alone, head thrown back and face twisted with pleasure, with his mouth open, making those _fucking noises,_ oh _hell-_

Alfie is coming before he has even fully realized it’s going to happen, and then he fucking _does,_ shoving upwards into the tight heat of Tommy’s body as hard as he possibly can.

When he comes back to himself, Tommy has his forehead pressed against Alfie’s shoulder. Alfie gives into the urge to stroke his back a bit with one hand, can’t even help it, and Tommy takes a shuddering breath and burrows closer. They stay like that for a bit, coming down together.

And that should have been the end of it, shouldn’t it, but of course it isn’t. Of course not.

Because about ten minutes later, Tommy, already smoking again, says “So…” with the suspiciously unimportant air of somebody who just remembered some minor detail about the neighbors. “Ollie.”

“Yeah,” Alfie says, noncommittal – already on his guard, because he _really_ doesn’t want to have this fucking conversation.

“Just,” Tommy says, then clears his throat. “If that’s something- I mean, maybe you should know that.. my sister, the one that lives in London, she… might be aware. Of some… things.”

He’s studiously not looking at Alfie as he says it and his ears are red, and Alfie stares at him, trying to process what he just said, along with everything he merely insinuated and everything that he most certainly didn’t say, but is fucking obvious information anyway. This is not what he expected to hear at all. 

“Right,” he says, very slowly, and then he blinks, and then adds, “Y’know, now that I think about it… I should probably get back, shouldn’t I.”

_Huh._

No idea he was going to say that, but that’s how it goes sometimes. It’s an unusual thing to say, he’s aware of that, because he has… actually never _not_ stayed the night, he now realizes with a strange, queasy feeling in his gut. Tommy blinks at him, cigarette hanging in the air, stopped dead on the way to his mouth.

“What?” he says, sounding so obviously surprised that Alfie is absolutely and irrationally angry all of a sudden; because it’s fucking _surprising,_ apparently, that he should want to leave at some point, or do something unexpected at all. Like that is a privilege solely reserved for one Tommy Shelby, who gets to decide and dictate fucking _everything_ , who gets to disappear and reappear in whatever intervals he fucking chooses and obviously Alfie is supposed to just… _be there_ and never return that particular favor at all.

It’s the surprise more than anything that solidifies his anger.

“Yeah,” he says, as flippantly as he can. “Change of plans, mate – can’t trust these idiots all by themselves, apparently, can I. Without proper supervision, they’re gonna go ahead, yeah, and set themselves on fire and my livelihood with it, so… gonna have to go put a stop to that.”

Tommy is still blinking at him – like an idiot, Alfie thinks, aware that he’s being cruel and not giving a fuck, a beautiful idiot, yes, but an idiot nonetheless.

“You…” Tommy says and then immediately catches himself. “Yes. Right. ‘Course.”

He clears his throat and then curses under his breath, hastily preventing his cigarette from flaking ash all over the covers. Alfie has managed to get out of bed by this point, collecting his things. He’ll have to wash up, he thinks, but the sink ought to do it.

“You need anything, or…?” Tommy says, like Alfie can’t find the fucking bathroom by himself.

“Oh, you know,” Alfie says, busying himself with untangling his shirt by violently shaking it out a few times, so he doesn’t have to look at him. “Some peace and fuckin’ quiet would be nice, hm? How ‘bout that? ‘Cause I _am_ actually capable of putting my fuckin’ clothes back on all by my lonesome, yeah, hard as that might be to believe. Been doing it a long time before you came along, mate.”

And he _knows_ Tommy’s face has to be an expressionless mask by this point, doesn’t need to see it to confirm – which is fine by him, really. _Fuck_ Tommy Shelby, he thinks viciously, surprising himself. Always expects everybody to dance to his tune and then has the fucking _gall_ to be surprised when they don’t. Who the fuck does he think he is, anyway?

They don’t talk any more after that. Alfie puts himself together in the adjourning bathroom, doesn’t close the door on principle, to show that he couldn’t care less, and manages to be done in under three minutes. The whole time, Tommy stays on the bed and doesn’t seem to move a single muscle, and when Alfie finally says, “Well, goodnight then.” (because again, fucking _manners)_ door already cracked open and still not really looking at him, he doesn’t reply.

Alfie leaves.

He’s already standing outside the hotel when realization hits – what is he going to do, _walk_ all the way back home – so he ambles back inside as casually as possible and asks to make another bloody telephone call. (Fucking useless apparatus, honestly – Alfie sincerely hopes the inventor suffered severe heartburn for the rest of his miserable life.)

His driver sounds surprised to hear from him (because this is the Evening Of Fucking Surprises, apparently, and everybody is feeling the need to get in on the action), even though he is technically on stand-by, which means Alfie could call at any time – but fucking hell, Alfie thinks, it’s not like that has ever actually happened before.

Then he’s waiting outside on the sidewalk, half-dreading, half-expecting Tommy to show up, but of course he doesn’t.

He considers going home and just going to bed and then decides against it. Goes back to the bakery instead, scaring the few people still there half to death with his sudden appearance. One bloke chokes on the rum he was just sipping on and starts couching up half a lung – everybody else immediately and wisely disappears, abandoning him while Alfie happily tears into him for ten minutes. (He throws the empty rum glass for good measure. It makes him feel marginally better.)

Then he surveys the whole still-situation, which is tragic in its entirety; the worst of human stupidity on full display, here, but ultimately, it’s not the end of the world. Not that Alfie says that last part out loud, lest people get the impression they can repeat this mistake without actual heads being torn off, which is absolutely _not_ the case. Afterwards, he barricades himself in his office and starts re-organizing things that don’t actually need re-organizing because they, as the term suggests, are already organized. At some point there is a careful knock on the door and then it actually _opens,_ the fucking nerve of these people-

“Hello,” Ollie says, shuffling inside cautiously.

“Called the fucking cavalry, did they,” Alfie says without raising his head, too busy contemplating if he should just set the stack of papers in front of him on fire (since this seems to be a viable option now, apparently) and be done with it.

“Well, not really,” Ollie says. “It’s half past six. I’m just really early.”

Alfie looks up at that. “You are?”

“Yeah.”

“It _is?”_

“Yeah.”

“Bloody hell.”

He probably should go home regardless, at least for an hour or two, eat something, come back at a more normal time and in different clothes. Ollie still hasn’t come any closer, but he’s eying the desk, very obviously trying to assess the kind of damage Alfie might have done during the night. (None, is the answer to that, thank you very much, since Alfie got inspired around three in the morning, after throwing his guest chair against the wall, and actually managed to get some real work done.)

“Listen,” Ollie says, nervously twisting his hands. “About last night-”

Alfie makes a noise that’s supposed to convey his need for Ollie to shut the fuck up and slices as a hand through the air, but Ollie is undeterred. Prolonged exposure, Alfie thinks sourly, has to be. No fucking respect whatsoever, that boy.

“I didn’t mean to presume… well, anything, really. I’m sorry.”

“Didn’t mean to presume, did you.”

“No.”

“Nothing at all?”

“No.”

“Fine, then.”

“It’s not gonna happen again.”

“No,” Alfie says very slowly and very calmly, and he’s not sure what’s showing on his face right now, but there must be _something,_ because Ollie swallows hard. “It _absolutely_ isn’t.”

“Understood.”

Alfie does go home after that, leaving Ollie in charge of putting the current chaos on his desk back in order.

Later, when he’s soaking in his tub – because he spent most of the night hunched over in a chair, didn’t he, which is one of the dumber things he’s done this week, but maybe he can stave off the worst of it – he finally dares to prod the actual problem in his own mind.

_My sister might be aware. Of some… things._

What the fuck does that even mean? No, honestly, what is anybody supposed to take away from that? If somebody’d asked him yesterday if there was even a remote possibility that Tommy Shelby was going to tell a single soul about the fact that they’ve been fucking, the answer would have been a resounding no – for a number of very obvious reasons, and also because that boy has more issues than a newspaper celebrating its fiftieth anniversary.

Alfie rubs both hands over his face with a frustrated noise.

He’s not… okay with that idea. Which comes as a surprise, since he can’t even seem to pinpoint what, exactly, is bothering him so much, not even in his own head, but, well. It is what it fucking is. And it’s a stupid reaction to have, honestly, he’s well aware of that, because again – he doesn’t have any details, doesn’t even know what that remark really meant. (And yes, it’s his own fault as well, because he could have bloody _asked,_ couldn’t he, but that particular ship has very obviously set sail and disappeared behind the horizon by now.)

After the exit he pulled, he’ll be lucky if Tommy ever shows up again to do business, let alone to do… anything else, but he’ll just have to wait and see, won’t he.

What the fuck else is he going to do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just... very fucking dramatic. (In my head, Alfie's first go-to, gut reaction when he's upset about something would be irrational anger, so that's what is... happening here.) And I really like (the idea of) Ollie, so he gets more of a personality now!
> 
> ...also, it took Herculean effort to not just name this "Call me maybe" and be done with it.
> 
> I'm [bakedapplesauce](https://bakedapplesauce.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


	2. Chapter 2

Six days go by without any communication at all.

On Thursday, Alfie’s driver has a family emergency. (Father-in-law has been bed-ridden for the better part of three weeks now due to something being wrong with his heart and as far as Alfie understands, the situation is looking very dire.)

Which is not really a problem – it’s perfectly fine in theory, except Ollie fancies himself a fucking comedian, doesn’t he, because he sends him Benjamin as a replacement. So on Thursday morning, Alfie leaves the house, gets a good look at who is in the driver’s seat, and almost walks straight back in again.

Fucking _Benjamin._ Alfie had to employ him, didn’t he, because he knows Benjamin’s uncle pretty well, they’re on good terms and whatnot, but the boy just annoys Alfie to no end. (Through _every_ fault of his own, really, because he just has _that_ kind of a personality, the one that always tries too hard and somehow still never manages to catch a bloody clue about anything.)

“Good morning, Mister Solomons,” Benjamin says. He’s got a mop of curling, reddish-brown hair and a very enthusiastic expression, and Alfie wants to strangle him immediately. 

“Hmmmmm,” he says, which hopefully conveys his desire for peace and fucking quiet during this fine car ride on this fine morning. (It doesn’t. Benjamin doesn’t talk to him directly, but after a minute he starts talking to _himself,_ commenting under his breath on every single thing he does while driving, so… clearly, there is no hope for him.)

All of this goes to show that the morning hasn’t started out _great,_ especially since Alfie can feel the familiar ache in his back already, faint enough still, but it doesn’t bode too well for the rest of his day; and then everything gets completely derailed when they get to the bakery and Alfie sees John fucking Shelby standing there on the street, animatedly talking to one of Alfie’s men. Alfie circles through every possible and impossible scenario in his head in the span of two seconds, before he suddenly remembers – they were supposed to have their monthly meeting today. _They_ meaning Alfie and Tommy, in this case.

Originally, the whole thing started out as a fixed opportunity to discuss logistics (which is still something that happens from time to time, if it’s necessary), but for the most part, they’ve used it at as a convenient excuse to see each other. And it’s not unusual for John to tag along to these kind of things, even though he’s never present for the actual discussion. If Alfie had to guess, he’d assume he does it so he can visit the night clubs without having to justify anything to his wife.

Which Alfie is perfectly fine with, honestly, John can stay the fuck away for all he cares, because _discussion_ usually means Tommy Shelby sprawled out in Alfie’s guest chair, smoking one cigarette after the other, sometimes even deigning to have a drink, looking so fucking pleased with himself every time he wins an argument. On very rare occasions, he even loosens his collar a bit, which honestly has no right to be _that_ fucking attractive, but Alfie’s brain has never seemed to care at all.

So Alfie sees John Shelby standing there, toothpick between his teeth, and has one really bad, really fucking paranoid moment right before he gets out of the car, suddenly convinced that John _has_ to know about them – Tommy told him, Tommy told fucking _everybody,_ and when Alfie opens the newspaper later (hasn’t touched it yet, still rolled up in his coat pocket), it’s going to be there in black and white and for all the world to see.

It isn’t, of course.

This becomes very apparent when John shakes his hand without much fanfare, visibly eager to get back to his previous conversation. Ollie is waiting at the entrance, looking smug as anything, and it takes Alfie a second to remember that he’s probably amused about bloody _Benjamin_ and not about the fact that Alfie now has to confront Tommy Shelby without any warning whatsoever. (Because Alfie managed to _forget the date,_ didn’t he, because he honestly thought Tommy wouldn’t show up – expected him to cancel via bloody telephone call, honestly, or better yet, have his _secretary_ do it for him.)

They used to not let Tommy into his office by himself, but that changed at some point; so now Ollie tells him that Mr. Shelby is already waiting in Alfie’s office, just like he has done in the last few months – because how was Ollie or anybody else supposed to know that things have changed _again?_

Alfie steels himself, puts on his best neutral expression and marches into his office like he owns the place. (Which, well, he does. Not that knowing this makes it any easier.) How this is going to go is probably entirely dependent on how Tommy wants to play this, Alfie thinks. Since he decided to unexpectedly show up and everything.

The answer to that question turns out to be stone-faced and impersonal, which doesn’t exactly come as a surprise.

“Morning,” Tommy says, and as always, he manages to look impeccable in his expensive fucking suit and like he hasn’t slept for a week at the same time. (As always, he looks so fucking ethereal it’s hard to believe he’s just a regular person, an asshole really, and not something that should be put on a pedestal to be worshiped.) Alfie grunts something back that might be considered a greeting under the right circumstances and sinks down into his chair. They don’t shake hands.

There isn’t even anything to talk about, not really, because until six days ago, they’ve more or less been in regular contact, haven’t they; and nothing unexpected has come up in the meantime, so they circle through the obligatory details alarmingly quickly. Why the fuck did Tommy even come here, Alfie thinks. Must have been aware that this would be fucking pointless. _Alfie_ would have been, if he had for one moment thought that this meeting was going to happen at all.

An awkward silence settles over them.

“All right,” Tommy says. “This has been productive.”

It has been five minutes. He’s barely started on his second cigarette.

“Sure,” Alfie says, because suddenly he doesn’t feel like talking.

“Was there anything else?”

“Nahh,” Alfie says, elbow planted on the desktop, twisting one of his rings around with his thumb. “Could’ve saved yourself a trip, mate.”

Tommy shrugs, very casually.

“Got some other things to do today,” he says, which is what Alfie suspected.

“Hmm,” he says and then, he doesn’t even know why, can’t help but ask. “Anything profitable, yeah?”

Tommy inhales deeply, letting the smoke escape through his mouth and nose simultaneously.

“I have to meet with Lord Marsham later today,” he says (because of the shipyard, Alfie’s brain fills in immediately, because even though this isn’t really Alfie’s area of expertise, he’s still aware of all the people holding various influence in the general London area.) and then, inexplicably, he decides to add, “He’s got a son.”

Alfie racks his brain, comes up with a vague outline of a person. As far as he can remember, Lord Marsham is in his sixties (and his wife can’t be far behind, probably, if he’s thinking of the right people, which he might not be), so any son of his has to be… out of infancy, to say the least. Alfie can’t tell where this is going at all. It sets his teeth on edge.

“Well, good for him, innit, that’s a very nice thing to have,” he says. “That it? Hm? Got some other things to do today as well, haven’t I.”

Tommy shrugs one shoulder.

“The son's interested,” he says, and then he’s leaning back in his chair, utterly detached. “Has been for a while.”

It takes a moment for the actual meaning to sink in, because it’s such an unexpected thing to hear – such an unexpected for him to _say,_ really. _Interested._ And it’s fucking impressive, Alfie thinks in a small, secluded corner of his mind, it’s almost _inspiring_ how he manages to cut straight through Alfie’s carefully curated calm in under ten words, with the medical precision of a scalpel.

That was fucking _excellent_ , because Alfie can feel the rage boiling up inside of him immediately – it breaks through the surface like an egg cracking because it’s been cooked in hot water for too long, scalding and strangely sluggish at the same time. He feels himself go absolutely still with blinding white fury.

“Is that right.”

Tommy has already put on the face that signals he’s bored with this conversation now, thank you very much, and could they maybe wrap this up soon.

“Well,” Alfie says. He feels like he is trying to hold a door shut during a fucking hurricane, can’t even really hear his own voice over the howling in his head, but he’s got an iron fucking grip on the door handle all the same. Judging by the fact that Tommy’s expression doesn’t change, it must be coming out normal enough. “That’s that, then.”

Tommy does blink at him then, twice, in very quick succession, almost like somebody unexpectedly slapped him in the face. Then the mask is back on like nothing ever happened.

“Yes,” he says, and clears his throat. “Seems that way.”

“Does, doesn’t it.”

He watches Tommy stub out his half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray, manages to carefully pry his hand away from where it’s clutching the armrest of his chair in the meantime. Doesn’t even feel like it belongs to him. Could put it through the glass separating his office from the rest of the bakery, probably, and not feel a thing.

Tommy is standing in front of the desk, suddenly. Either he got up really quickly, or Alfie was distracted by his detached fucking hand. He holds it out. Tommy stares down at it like he can _see_ how numb it feels, is bewildered by it, mouth set in a hard line.

They shake hands goodbye without saying anything.

* * *

For the rest of the day, Alfie keeps thinking about it, and thinking about it, and fucking _thinking_ about.

Doesn’t really listen to anything anybody else has to say to him for the rest of the day, and goes home as soon as he can. (He doesn’t know what’s showing on his face this time around, but there must something and it must be bad, because when he gets into the car, Benjamin takes one look at him and clamps his mouth shut. It stays that way for the whole drive.)

And it’s ridiculous, Alfie is perfectly aware of that, not least of all because he doesn’t even know what the bastard looks like, so all the scenarios playing themselves out in his head are inaccurate at best. He tries very hard not to imagine how Tommy would be with… somebody else.

Cautious, probably, at least at the beginning, very reserved, because that’s how he used to be with… but then again who fucking knows, maybe that was just because it was Alfie _specifically_ and with somebody else, Tommy might be different. Might just… go for it, even, right from the very start, he might let himself be moved around and held down, might let them tell him what to do _immediately,_ red mouth and pale skin, everything on display, with that fucking _look_ in his eyes-

Alfie is going to break his fucking pen at this point, so he lets it fall out of his numb hand, watches it clatter onto the desk.

There is that slow, boiling anger again, rising to the top, and there is his desk, cluttered with documents- and he’s _not_ going to throw anything or ruin anything, he tells himself sternly. Absolutely not. There isn’t anybody here to see, so there would be no effect to it at all. Fists both of his hands into the hair on the back of his head instead, leans back in his chair with a deep breath. All right.

He’s not going to fucking sit here, right, and agonize over Tommy bloody Shelby possibly fucking somebody else.

(He’s brought this on himself too, Alfie reminds himself, which is the hilarious part – could’ve just carried on with what they were doing instead, couldn’t he, because that was working _perfectly fine_ for everybody involved. Except _he_ wasn’t the one to ruin it first, was he, because _he_ didn’t one day up and decide that it was time to let everybody in on the fucking secret, let the whole world _know_ what exactly it is that was working _so well_ for the both of them.)

He’s managed to stay away from the telephone for almost an hour by now; and it would be a useless endeavor anyway, because Tommy probably isn’t even at the hotel anymore, he’s gone out, he’s in somebody else’s fucking bed. 

Except when Alfie dials the number and tells the reception which room he’d like to be connected to, somebody actually picks up the phone.

“Hello?” Tommy’s voice says.

Alfie doesn’t say anything for a good five seconds – stares at the opposite wall, mesmerized, stupidly realizing that he really doesn’t like that wallpaper and how has he never noticed that before – before he hangs up. (Still at the hotel, he thinks, which doesn’t actually have to _mean_ anything, because they could just be fucking there. God knows _they_ have.)

And then he suddenly realizes that this could have very easily been _same exact situation_ as last time, with all of their roles reversed except for Tommy, who seems to be the fixed point in this scenario, the axis everything else rotates around, still in the same place, answering the same bloody phone. There very easily could’ve been somebody else waiting for him on the bed.

This is possibly the worst thing Alfie has _ever_ _thought._

The obvious solution, the one that immediately presents itself, is to just keep calling the room, to make a nuisance of himself, which is unbearably pathetic and also, simply put, _fucking insane,_ so Alfie considers it only for a few seconds before pushing the thought out of his mind.

Yeah, no. Not going to do that, is he. He’s going to call one more time, he decides, just to clear up the previous call (whatever the fuck that was supposed to be), and that is going to be _it._

The telephone rings exactly once before Tommy’s voice says “Yeah.”, almost like he was stood right next to it. Alfie is suddenly occupied with his ugly-as-sin wallpaper again. Seriously, did he pick out that fucking pattern? What was he _thinking?_

“Who the fuck is this?” Tommy’s voice says next to his ear, after another few seconds of silence.

“What the fuck color is beige, anyway,” Alfie says. “You like beige?”

“Alfie?”, Tommy’s voice says.

Alfie’s first instinct is to deny it, which would be bloody ridiculous, so he says “Yeah.” like that is a stupid question to ask.

There is a long pause.

“What do you want?”

“Nothing,” Alfie says immediately.

“Because if you’re bloody calling because you want my opinion on _colors-”_

“Don’t worry, mate,” Alfie says and he’s going for sarcastic, but probably ends up sounding bitter instead. “Perfectly aware I’ve been dismissed, yeah. Heard you loud and fuckin’ clear.”

Tommy hangs up on him.

* * *

Two hours later, the doorbell rings.

Alfie gets up from his desk and turns his coat pocket inside out for his revolver, more out of habit than anything else, because if somebody has decided to come murder him right here, right now… well if they’re polite enough to announce themselves, they’re either complete idiots and he might not even need a weapon, or possess enough manpower to finish the job regardless. He puts it in the back of his trousers, shuffles downstairs to check the door.

There’s fucking Tommy Shelby standing on his doorstep at half past nine at night.

Alfie seriously considers not answering. Maybe he could demonstratively turn off the hallway light, because he’s pretty sure it is the only thing visible from the street right now. Let him know to fuck off, however indirectly. Instead, he runs his fingers through his beard for a few moments, waiting for his mind to go carefully blank, and then he does open the door. Tommy blinks at him, almost as if surprised. Just stands there, frozen in place, like he didn’t expect Alfie to be there at all.

Alfie does a quick survey of the street – no unfamiliar car anywhere. Didn’t fucking walk here, did he?

“Yeah, what?”, Alfie says eventually, when Tommy proceeds to just stand there and not say anything, clinging to impatience to compensate for the fact that his heart is suddenly beating twice as fast. “How can I fucking help you, mate?”

Tommy shrugs. It’s a strangely loose-limbed gesture, hands dangling slack by his sides, like they’re barely attached to his arms at all. If Alfie didn’t know him, he probably wouldn’t notice anything was off; but alas, he does and there _is._

“I don’t fucking know,” Tommy says and even though it comes out perfectly clear, there’s something in his inflection, something is not quite right… and all of a sudden, Alfie realizes that he’s _drunk._

Scratch that, he thinks, not drunk, make that absolutely fucking hammered. He’s not swaying on his feet or anything like that, but his usual posturing is missing, Alfie realizes, he’s not squaring his shoulders in that way he normally does; making himself seem bigger than he actually is.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Alfie says, not entirely sure which emotion he is going for, here, and clears the doorway. Tommy ambles inside very slowly, like he can’t decide whether he actually wants to or not.

“How’d you get here, mate?” Alfie says, and then, because he can’t help himself, “Your new friend give you a ride? Hm?”

Tommy furrows his brow at that, mouth curling in disgust – the expression makes him look strangely young, like a child refusing to eat something it doesn’t like. (But then again, any obvious display of emotion on his face is a rare and foreign thing, at least when he’s not… horizontal, lets put it like that.)

“Don’t like him,” he says.

“No?”

Tommy shakes his head, then blinks at Alfie like he’s only just recognized him.

“You’re not even that tall,” he says, inexplicably, like that was ever a question in need of an answer.

“Bloody hell,” Alfie mutters, then adds, a bit louder. “Can’t really do anything about that, mate, now can I.”

“S’fine,” Tommy says generously, and it’s the first time he does sound a bit slurred. He’s stopped in the middle of the hallway, stands there like he’s waiting for directions. “You’ve got, your shoulders are good.”

Alfie doesn’t know what to say to that, which is something that very rarely happens.

“Are they, now.”

“Hands, too,” Tommy adds, mumbling a bit and honestly, Alfie thinks, what the fuck does that even mean?

“All right, mate,” Alfie says, trying to ignore that particular remark. He’s really out of practice dealing with drunk people, can’t even remember the last time he had to. “What do you say, right, about maybe… going to bed? Hm? That sound like a good idea?”

Tommy’s eyes snap upwards at that, staring at him, suddenly completely lucid. Alfie makes a humming noise, uncomfortably aware of how that might have sounded.

“Not that I’m… s’not what I meant,” he says, inexplicably feeling neck grow warm.

Tommy shrugs again, morose now. “Didn’t think…” he starts, then seems to stop himself and raises his chin instead. “You’re _dismissed_ anyway, eh?”

Alfie doesn’t know how to interpret that at all, feels like he’s floundering, which in turn makes him feel impatient and angry. What is Tommy even doing here, he thinks, what the fuck does he _want?_

“Is that a fact.”

“You said,” Tommy says defiantly. The longer he goes on for – the longer he has to stand there talking – the more obvious his current condition becomes. “S’exactly what you said.”

“Did say that, yeah,” Alfie says, because it is true and he’s not feeling all that generous, honestly.

“Well, there you…” Tommy says, stumbling over the words a bit, “…there you fucking go. Eh? There you go.”

Then he falls silent.

Could just kick him out, Alfie thinks, except some part of him is already kicking and screaming at the mere thought of that, flat out refusing to let it happen.

“Come on,” he says instead and Tommy follows him upstairs, hands shoved deep into his pockets, face completely unreadable.

“Right,” Alfie says, once they’re in the bedroom, secretly glad he chose to work in his study (because the chair is more comfortable there, innit), the subsequent mess of important papers spread out over the desk there and not over the one in his bedroom, because he’s honestly not in the mood to clear everything away. “You’re gonna sleep it off. Yeah? Take your fucking shoes off and…”

He stops awkwardly, realizing that he doesn’t actually know what else to do and then he adds, “You ask me, right, gun would probably be a good idea too.”

“Fuck off,” Tommy mumbles, but he’s already peeling out of his coat and his suit jacket, throwing everything on the surface of the desk in a tangled mess, before he sits on the bed and struggles with his holster for a bit.

Alfie just watches him (collar gaping open, the creases in the back of his shirt, wrinkled from the day, the way a few loose strands of hair fall into his face, how he leaves the gun in its holster and how he carefully puts everything on top of the nightstand), and tries very fucking hard not to think of anything at all.

If Tommy notices the staring, he doesn’t let it show. He tugs the suspenders off his shoulders and then leaves them where they are, flopping backwards onto the mattress.

“Shoes,” Alfie says, with his mouth dry.

Tommy makes an indignant noise in the back of his throat and struggles upright again to unfasten his shoelaces, kicking his shoes off almost resentfully when he’s done. Then he lies down again.

Right, Alfie thinks, relief like a weight in the pit of his stomach. There they are.

“Alfie,” Tommy says. He’s got an arm draped over his eyes now and he either says it very quietly or he’s half asleep already. Alfie can’t really tell.

“Yeah,” Alfie says.

“…can you look the door?”

He’s talking about the deadbolt on the inside of Alfie’s bedroom door. The thing is, if Alfie locks that, they’re going to be stuck in here together; since he can’t very well do it from the outside, can he. He wonders if Tommy realizes that.

“Yeah,” he repeats like an idiot, and goes and does it.

* * *

When he wakes up later that night, everything is pitch black at first. There is another noise, muffled, and Alfie realizes that somebody – Tommy, hopefully – is moving around in the dark bedroom. The bedroom door is ajar, Alfie can see it in the moonlight; it’s not exactly obvious, but it’s his own bloody bedroom, right, and Alfie knows what everything is supposed to look like. Probably went to the bathroom, he thinks, and then realizes that Tommy is kneeling on the floor because he is in the process of putting his shoes back on.

“Where t’fuck you think you’re going,” Alfie mumbles, and it doesn’t exactly come out right, but the general sentiment is clear, he thinks. Tommy freezes at the sound of his voice. His arms stop moving, and then he slowly turns his head in Alfie’s direction.

“Out,” he says, which is a strange thing to say – makes Alfie’s stomach do a strange flip, because for a second, it almost sounds like he _lives_ here and doesn’t want to explain what he’s going to do tonight. Except he _doesn’t_ live here, does he, and it has to be past midnight already.

Some kind of movement goes through him all of a sudden, and he tilts to the side – because he lost his balance crouching down like that, Alfie realizes. Fucking hell, he has to be drunk still, even though he recovers immediately; gets his feet back under him and tries to stand up a bit too quickly. Overcorrects and then sways to the side, just barely, before he finds his balance again.

He’s wearing his shoes, but as far as Alfie can tell, now that his eyes have gotten used to the darkness, they’re both still untied. 

“Tommy,” he says. “C’mere. Seriously, mate. Lie the fuck down and close your fuckin’ eyes for a bit, yeah, before you break your neck going down the fuckin’ stairs or something.”

A few seconds pass by where Tommy just stands there, completely immobile in the moonlight, like he’s not even a real person but a statue, inhumane and devoid of any emotion. Except that’s not fucking true, is it, because then he very carefully stalks back over and sits on the edge of the bed. Has the courtesy to kick his shoes off again, before he turns and shifts his back against the headboard, drawing his legs up against his chest, stiff and rehearsed, like he planned that sequence of movements out in his head beforehand. Who fucking knows, Alfie thinks, maybe he did.

Alfie mirrors the position with a sigh, minus the drawing up of the legs, because honestly, he’s not up for that tonight.

This feels like really fucking strange territory to be in, even for them. And maybe it’s the darkness, or maybe it’s the fact that everything is already ruined, but suddenly, Alfie hears himself say: “So what happened – your other opportunity fall through? Hm? He got a fuckin’ headache or something?”

“Do you bloody care?”

“Yeah,” Alfie says, and it doesn’t come as a surprise exactly, because he _knew_ that already, didn’t he, but he wasn’t sure he was going to say it out loud. “I do bloody care, actually.”

Then he clamps his mouth shut, chewing on the inside of his cheek, because hell. Fucking _hell,_ seriously, was that necessary? It’s not like it’s going to make a bit of difference either way. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Tommy grab onto his own wrist with his other hand, before he takes a deep breath, like he has to steel himself against something.

“Nothing happened.”

There is a pause. Nothing happened. _Nothing._ God, this can’t possibly mean what Alfie thinks it means, this is wishful thinking at its finest.

“Nothing,” Alfie repeats, incredulous.

“Yes.”

“Bullshit,” Alfie says, all of a sudden well on his way to angry again, because he’s not an _idiot,_ and there are very few things he appreciates less than being treated like one. Especially by Tommy Shelby, who in his own mind has figured out the whole universe, apparently.

“Why the fuck would I lie about that?” Tommy says and now _he_ sounds incredulous. It’s not a bad point to make, Alfie thinks, because the only reason that comes to mind would be to spare Alfie’s feelings and well… Tommy’s really not in the habit of doing that, they’ve established that much.

“So you’re telling me, right,” Alfie says and he’s honestly not sure what he’s feeling right now – relief, anger, fear, joy, he couldn’t fucking tell you. “That the… guy, cunt, _whoever_ _the fuck_ and you, yeah, you was all set, and then he… what, he changed his fuckin’ mind?”

“No, he wanted to,” Tommy says, easy as anything, like that much should be obvious and hell, the sad truth of the matter is that it _is_ fucking obvious, Alfie can absolutely understand that sentiment, because _he_ fucking wants to and couldn’t fucking _stop_ wanting to if he tried. “I just… didn’t.”

“Why not?” Alfie says, even though he’s not really sure he wants to know the answer.

Tommy stares down at his knees, completely and utterly still. People facing an actual firing squad probably don’t look _this_ hopelessly resigned to their fate, Alfie thinks, stomach churning. A few moments go by, where Tommy just seems… stuck, would be the word, probably, because he doesn’t move, doesn’t swallow, doesn’t even seem to breathe.

“All right,” Alfie finally says. “Let’s just… how ‘bout we see about all of this in the morning? Hm?” Then he adds, under his breath, “Can’t be that far off, anyway, right.” which seems to break the ice a little.

“Okay,” Tommy says to the top of his knees. He’s still not looking at Alfie, but he mechanically reaches for the blanket, and then lies down and curls up under it, which is _something,_ at least. Alfie considers touching his back, doesn’t even know why, just to be comforting maybe, but decides against it. He settles down on his side of the bed, closes his eyes, tries to calm down.

(Tommy’s going to be gone by morning, he thinks. Sure as the sun rises in the East. This was just… a very strange detour, delaying the inevitable.)

It takes him a very long time to fall asleep again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, this has three chapters now. I'm very sorry, but it was getting too fucking long.  
> (This is so full of clichés lol... but I love clichés, so. Here they are. All of them, right down to calling and then hanging up without saying anything. Because Alfie is a teenage girl, apparently.)
> 
> I'm [bakedapplesauce](https://bakedapplesauce.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


	3. Chapter 3

Alfie wakes up because he needs to use the bathroom.

It’s a rare occurrence, to be awake in the middle of the night, but then again, this has been a very unusual night in general – he’d have to think very long and hard to figure out the last time he woke up once during the night, let alone twice. Who knows, maybe whatever feverish aversion Tommy seems to have against sleep is catching.

Alfie drags himself up with a low grunt. The light that filters in from the outside is dark and murky, but not entirely black anymore. Just starting to dawn, probably. Alfie feels a ridiculous pang of guilt when he has to unlock the door – Tommy must’ve locked it again, before – to actually leave the room and step out into the hallway; feels like a betrayal, almost. In the bathroom, he takes a piss and then just stands there for a solid minute or two, arms braced on either side of the washbasin, trying not to catch a glimpse of himself in the dark mirror, and lets his head hang low. Tries very hard to keep his mind blank.

Tommy Shelby is asleep in his bed, which is nothing but a simple fact. Seemed like an inevitability yesterday – like there was nowhere else he could’ve ended up, really, once he showed up here and Alfie let him inside the house. Seemed like the logical conclusion, didn’t it, like the only possible outcome. Now, with Alfie in another room and a hallway of distance between them, it also seems… complicated. Exhausting, even, and Alfie is already fucking tired, awake for the second time in one night, which is already two times too many for his taste.

He rubs one hand over his face, clutching the basin with the other. What a fucking mess. In any case, he’s too tired to try and figure everything out now.

When he gets back to the bedroom, he half-expects Tommy to be up and moving, already putting his shoes on again, but he’s still nothing but an unassuming lump under the covers. Alfie gets back into bed as slowly and carefully as he possibly can, doesn’t even dare look in his direction for fear that he’s going to know, somehow – that he’s going to feel Alfie staring at him and startle awake. There is the faint sound of his breathing, which should be a disruption of the otherwise quiet room, but it isn’t – because he’s gotten used to it, Alfie realizes, as he pushes an arm underneath his pillow, it’s a familiar noise at this point.

The next time he opens his eyes, the room is a bit brighter (which makes sense, given the nature of things, doesn’t it) but not by much. Must have dozed off again – but judging by the light, he can’t have been out for more than ten, fifteen minutes, Alfie thinks, shifting gradually from sleep to consciousness, and then he thinks, _oh._ Because Tommy is blinking at him from only a few inches away, looking as sleep-dazed as Alfie feels.

He’s still on his side, but now he’s facing towards Alfie, one hand half-curled on the pillow next to his head. The dark circles under his eyes are even more pronounced than usual and otherwise he looks pale, his hair an unruly mess. Alfie tries to say something – doesn’t even know what, probably “Good morning” or something equally inane – but suddenly he absolutely fucking can’t, words stuck at the bottom of his throat.

“Morning,” Tommy says, voice like gravel, and he looks… terrified, Alfie realizes. Terrified, but trying to put on a brave face, which for some reason makes it easier to talk.

“Yeah, unexpected turn of events, innit” he rasps. “You’d think it’d stop happening at some point, right, just by chance, pure probability and all that,” and honestly, he has no fucking clue where he’s even going whit this, but it’s not like that has ever stopped him before. “But apparently not, which, if you ask me-”

And then he stops dead in his tracks, like he hit a brick wall, because Tommy has tipped his head forward and carefully put his forehead against Alfie’s shoulder. Nothing more, they’re not touching anywhere else – but that one point of contact, this one small, tired gesture, suddenly feels huge. Feels enormous, feels possibly earth-shattering, like this is the most significant thing that has happened to anybody, ever.

Alfie blinks at him in surprise for a second, before he fits his hand over the back of Tommy’s head very slowly and very gently, last two fingers curling around the nape of his neck, because the whole moment feels like it’s made of glass and might shatter at the smallest disturbance. He strokes his thumb behind Tommy’s ear two or three times and then there is an explosive gust of breath as Tommy’s body surges against his. Alfie pulls him in immediately, before he can even think about it, and now they’re pressed impossibly close, still eerily silent.

“S’fine,” Alfie mutters, doesn’t even know where the impulse to soothe is coming from, if he wants to convince Tommy or himself, but for some reason, it just feels like it needs to be said. “You hear that? Yeah? Everything’s gonna be fuckin’ fine-”

A full-body shiver runs through Tommy, then, and Alfie involuntarily tightens his grip, tries to pull him even closer. God, he realizes, he’s fucking _hard –_ they both are, he can feel Tommy’s erection against his thigh, burning hot even through the fabric.

“You-” Tommy says and then stops, and Alfie can’t see his face, because he’s still got his head down, mostly talking to Alfie’s collarbone, but that’s fine, it’s all fine, that feels safer anyway.

“Yeah, what?” Alfie murmurs into the strands of his hair. “What is it?”

“You’re gonna fuck me,” Tommy says, very quietly and all in a rush, like he’s worried somebody might overhear. “Right? Alfie? You-” and then there are a few seconds missing, must be, because the next thing Alfie knows, he’s cradling the back of Tommy’s head with one hand, has the other one carefully fitted against the base of his throat and they’re kissing deeply, slow and sweet like dripping honey.

“Yeah,” Alfie tells him in between, breathless and in bits and pieces. _“Yes,_ fuckin’ hell- the answer to that was _always_ gonna be yes, you fuckin’ _moron_ … didn’t have to go and be all fuckin’ dramatic about it, did you, wander off and find some other fuckin’ cunt for that-”

“I _didn’t,”_ Tommy says, petulant as anything, and _fuck,_ Alfie loves hearing him like that, turned on and disagreeable at the same time. “Didn’t bloody _want_ him to do _anything-”_

When Alfie starts to roll them over, Tommy goes easily, no resistance at all, and then Alfie is on top of him without even having to stop the kiss, shoving his hands underneath the shirt Tommy’s still wearing, touching as much skin as he can reach.

“Get-” he starts, has to collect himself and try again, because Tommy just rolled his hips. “Fuckin’ get this _off-”_

He tugs at the offending material and Tommy is already working on his cufflinks – very expensive ones, in all likelihood, but he doesn’t seem to care where they end up – but when he tries to start on his buttons, Alfie pulls his hand away; pushes everything up and over his head instead and throws the balled up fabric to the side carelessly. Then he sits back and has to stare for a second. Tommy stares right back at him, looking stunned – he’s flushed right down to his neck, chest rising and falling in a way that is honestly obscene, too short hair trying to fall into his eyes, and _fuck,_ Alfie thinks, in a moment of madness, he’s never going to let Tommy leave this bloody bed _ever_ again.

When Alfie goes for his fly, Tommy inhales a quick breath, sounding shocked. Alfie undoes the buttons with one hand, then needs both to drag everything down Tommy’s thighs. Tommy lifts up obediently, both palms flat against the mattress and Alfie pulls his trousers and his underwear off, flings everything away carelessly. Then he’s naked, and Alfie can’t help but stare at him, mesmerized by the red, hard line of his cock lying against his stomach.

He can’t stop himself from going down on him, it’s literally impossible, he _has_ to – lets himself pitch forward and buries his face against Tommy’s stomach, drags his wet mouth down and over to where Tommy’s hard and damp and twitching. When he draws the cockhead into his mouth, salty taste of pre-come on his tongue, Tommy makes a noise that sounds like he’s _hurt._ Alfie sucks him down as painstakingly slow as he can manage after that – stupidly, irrationally worried Tommy might come, like that might ruin the moment, break the spell, something.

And Tommy is trying to move into it, hips bucking up from the bed, so Alfie has to put an arm across his pelvis to hold him down, keep him still, make him _take_ it. He keeps going until his mouth feels bruised and everything is wet with spit and Tommy sounds like he might actually be dying, desperately fisting his hands in Alfie’s hair, his cock rock hard against Alfie’s tongue, swollen with blood and burning hot.

When Alfie stops, he feels shaky and off-balance, his own heartbeat hammering in his ears like he’s underwater. He lets Tommy’s cock slip out of his mouth and unsteadily moves back up, kisses him right through the protest he’s trying to make and hell, oh fucking _hell,_ Tommy’s _shaking._ They both are. Alfie presses their foreheads together, pushes him down into the bed, and Tommy grabs at his shoulders, trying to pull him closer, wraps his legs around Alfie’s waist and tries to grind his cock against Alfie’s stomach.

“Thought you wanted-” Alfie says hoarsely and Tommy, voice surprisingly steady, growls, “Get the fuck _on_ with it, then-”

And Alfie _tries_ to open him up slowly, once they’ve managed to separate long enough to actually get the oil out of the nightstand (the whole drawer ends up on the floor in the process, but who even fucking _cares,_ seriously), tries to take his time with this as well, but it’s a lost cause, really, because neither one of them seems to have an ounce of patience left. Alfie has barely worked one finger inside before Tommy is trying to shove back against him with an exasperated noise and sinks his teeth into Alfie’s bottom lip so hard it actually hurts.

So Alfie stops trying to make it really good and goes for adequate preparation instead, pulls every trick in the book and does his absolute best to get him ready enough to not hurt him, once he tries to work his cock inside. They’re kissing the whole time, Alfie’s mouth slick and aching and he honestly couldn’t care less if he tried – could keep doing this for all eternity and not complain, Tommy spread out under him, biting at Alfie’s mouth and moaning whenever Alfie shoves his fingers back inside his hole.

“Fucking… Christ,” he says eventually and he sounds almost angry, and God, Alfie missed his fucking _attitude._ “Bloody get on with it, the fuck is taking so long?”

“You want it, then?” Alfie says, fully aware that he’s being an asshole and not caring in the slightest.

Tommy just stares at him defiantly, flushed and panting.

“Say it,” Alfie tells him. He’s barely moving his fingers now, keeps them tucked inside, hidden away, not _quite_ touching where he knows Tommy wants him to.

“No,” Tommy says, and rolls his hips, teasing himself. Alfie lets him – watches him do it, fascinated, imagines how actually fucking into him is going to feel like.

“No?” Alfie echoes, rubs with his fingers, just a bit, just a reminder, and Tommy’s head falls back into the pillow, exposing the long line of his throat, legs drawing up again, framing Alfie’s waist.

“Not gonna say it,” Tommy mumbles and reaches for him instead, lines up Alfie’s cock and guides him home. Alfie lets himself fall forward, lets his own weight do some of the work as he sinks inside, where it’s unbearably hot and tight, arousal shivering down his spine. Tommy hisses a noise, legs tightening at the intrusion, small muscles in his stomach jumping. His hands are on Alfie’s ass, pulling him in, pulling him down, bringing them close together.

Somehow, one of his legs comes up a bit too far, one of Alfie’s arms right there next to his knee and it doesn’t even take much – Alfie moves his elbow out a bit, and suddenly, he has Tommy’s right leg hooked over the crook of his arm. And… _hell._ Fucking hell, Alfie has got him almost bent in half at this point and he is staring down at him helplessly, at how open and vulnerable he looks, nowhere left to go, and all of a sudden he is awash with realization: Tommy wants _him_ to do this.

Showed up at Alfie’s doorstep, didn’t he, even though he’s had another opportunity (would have a thousand other opportunities, probably, if he put his mind to it, and he doesn’t seem to be interested in _any_ of them.) Doesn’t seem to want that other bastard, whatever his fucking name was, but apparently wants _Alfie_ instead. Because here he is, here _they_ fucking are, all tangled up in each other, like this is the only way this could possibly go, like it’s fucking _inevitable._

“This all right?” Alfie manages, still reeling from his train of thought, and Tommy hisses “Oh, _fuck_ off!” like he’s offended, which is basically blanket permission for Alfie to keep doing whatever it is he’s doing, because it’s more than working for Tommy. And who is Alfie, a mere mortal, to argue with that, really, so he _does_ keep doing what he’s doing. 

“Oh, _Jesus,”_ Tommy moans, once they really get going and he looks half-gone already, head thrown back, eyes slitting with pleasure, which... _fuck._ Fucking hell, seriously, how is anybody supposed to handle that? Alfie is pushing into him as steadily as he can, so they end up with _some_ kind of rhythm at least. Tommy isn’t helping at all, and all right, it’s not like he can exactly move like this, with one of his legs folded back against his own chest, but still, he just keeps kissing Alfie clumsily before he stops again, breathing heavily against his cheek. 

It’s _distracting_ as all hell, is what it is, because in Alfie arousal-drenched brain, all his priorities seem to blend together: Shoving his tongue into Tommy’s mouth becomes as important as dragging his cock over that spot deep inside, the one that makes Tommy tense up and whine and tremble, and God, Alfie wants to _wreck_ him, wants to give him pleasure until he can’t even take it anymore, until he’s unable to think of anything else at all.

“Nobody else s’gonna do that for you,” he pants nonsensically, not even sure Tommy can hear him right now, but it’s not like that matters anyway at this point. “Eh? Just fuckin’ _look_ at you, you’re so fucking hot for it-”

 _“Fuck_ you,” Tommy pants back. Their rhythm is barely anything at this point, Alfie just fucking into him as slow and deep as he possibly can.

“Nobody else is gonna… gonna make you fuckin’ _want_ it like this,” he continues, because for some reason he can’t seem to stop. “Yeah? You can pretend all you want-”

“Fuck you,” Tommy hisses again, and by now he is very obviously trying to bite back those small, desperate noises on every exhale, which means he has to be really fucking close. “Oh, Christ, _fuck-_ you think I don’t fucking _know_ that?” and Alfie’s whole body fucking _throbs,_ so turned on he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He awkwardly fists Tommy’s cock in the limited space he has, can’t even move his hand like this, but it doesn’t matter, because on the next thrust Tommy is already coming, cock pulsing hotly between Alfie’s fingers and spilling all over everything. 

And Alfie _tries_ to fuck him through it, honestly he does, because that’s the decent thing to do, but Tommy is making all kinds of noise, spasming around Alfie’s cock and it’s just unfair, is what it is, him looking and sounding like this; like every desperate, secret fantasy Alfie has ever had rolled into one, and Alfie can recognize a lost cause when he’s confronted with it, and just... gives up and gives _in,_ lets it wash over him und then he’s coming as well. 

They don’t calm down after, because Alfie can’t seem to stop moving, even though he really should – can feel his cock become soft and sensitive and his back starting to complain, but he’s not the only one, because Tommy also just clutches at him, doesn’t let him move away at all, even though he must be feeling it by now, too. 

“Okay,” Alfie says finally, when there is absolutely nothing left to do but separate. “Right. All right.” He heaves himself up and away, flops onto his back next to Tommy and oh, he’s going to fucking feel this the entire day, he can already tell. Next to him, he can hear Tommy take a deep, trembling breath. When Alfie looks over, he’s got both hands over his face, not moving them, just… there.

“Tommy?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, into his hands, before he pulls them away. He blinks up at the ceiling.

“You all right?”

“Yes,” Tommy says, nodding. “I’m… yeah.”

Alfie looks away again. They lie there for a bit. At some point, he shoves both hands underneath his head, links his fingers together. After a while, Tommy, stiff and awkward and resolutely staring at the ceiling, says: “She doesn’t know the details.”

Alfie scratches at his cheek, takes a few seconds to consider that. “Thinks it’s a woman, then.”

There is a moment of silence; out of the corner of his eye, Alfie can see Tommy looking around the room like he doesn’t know whether he should lie or not.

“She doesn’t know it’s _you,”_ he mutters, finally, like he has to force himself to say it. “Just that there’s… somebody.”

 _Somebody permanent,_ he doesn’t say, or at least permanent enough to warrant… knowing about them. Which is terrifying in its own right, to be perfectly honest. Alfie couldn’t even really explain _why,_ just that it _is._ Fucking terrifying. He honestly can’t tell if that makes him a coward or if it means his common sense is still intact.

“Right,” he says, keeping his voice carefully neutral. “Well, that’s that then.”

Tommy looks over at him sharply and Alfie realizes he’s mirrored the exact phrasing he used yesterday when they… ended whatever this is, he supposes. Well. The break-up didn’t last long, did it. He waves a casual hand.

“I’m not trying to… hell.” He switches tac, because that seems a lot safer, suddenly. “She know about the other cunt, too?”

“The other-” Tommy says, disbelieving, and it’s strange, but his anger makes Alfie feel a lot calmer, makes something untethered and unpredictable inside of him settle down again.

“Are you fuckin’ _kidding_ me?” and he practically spits it at Alfie, furious. “You stupid- fuck you, you self-righteous _fuck.”_

“Yeah,” Alfie agrees easily, just because he knows that Tommy hates that more than anything; hates it when Alfie just absorbs the insult, takes any sting out of it by not denying anything. “Probably fair enough, all things considered-”

“And it is _my_ fucking business who _I_ decide to tell shit to, just so we’re bloody clear on that,” Tommy says. 

“You know what mate,” Alfie says, still perfectly calm. “Do whatever the fuck you like, yeah, see if I care. I’m not gonna make any of it my business, right, as long as you stay the fuck away from mine.” 

“How the fuck does Ollie know, anyway?” Tommy says, cold as ice and _there_ it fucking is, Alfie thinks. Fucking finally. He was waiting for that to come up. “Eh? Let’s discuss that for a second, while we’re on the subject. Lucky guess?” 

And suddenly, Alfie is really fucking angry again – because this is fucking unfair and also typical, really, the idea that he should be the mature one and _explain_ himself, lest Tommy fucking Shelby chokes on his myriad of insecurities. 

“What the fuck do you care?”

“So let me get this straight, you can tell whoever you want, but I can’t even-” 

“Didn’t tell Ollie _shit,_ did I!” Alfie shouts, a lot louder than he intended, but fuck it, it’s true, he didn’t – not with actual words at least, it’s not his fault Ollie is good with details. “What the fuck, you think I... what, just sit around, yeah, and tell my employees all the details ‘bout what happens in my bedroom? Yeah? We’re having ourselves a regular fuckin’ tea party? That what you fuckin’ think?”

(And he can practically see Ollie roll his eyes at the description _employee,_ which might not be entirely undeserved, but he’ll just have to fucking deal with that, won’t he, because this is not about _him.)_

Tommy misinterprets that outburst immediately, because of course he does. Alfie can practically _see_ him arrive at the wrong conclusion in his head: How Alfie does not give a single shit about any of this – which should have been fucking obvious, wasn’t that fucking obvious? – and how Tommy is the idiot here, _again,_ for ever assuming anything to the contrary.

Which is hilariously wrong on every level and also not what Alfie was trying to say at all, but it’s not like he can back out of it now. 

“I’m going to tell her none of it is relevant anymore,” Tommy says, obviously meaning his sister. “Done and done, you can stop with the bloody theatrics,” and suddenly Alfie just feels old and tired.

And the thing is, it should be validating, right, should feel like he has the upper hand here, because Tommy is clearly floundering (in that tight-lipped, blank-faced way he gets, where he keeps himself perfectly still, pretending _so hard_ he doesn’t give a shit) but it doesn’t. If anything, Tommy being clearly upset makes it worse, somehow, makes Alfie want to lie and tell him to forget about it, almost – and he’s so completely and utterly _fucked_ it’s not even funny anymore.

He scrubs a hand over his face. 

“I don’t fuckin’ care, mate,” he says again. “Honestly, I... you do whatever the fuck you want, hm?”

That leads to a spark of something, Tommy staring at him with his mouth set defiantly. 

“It’s not like I _told_ her," he says then, quietly. “All right? She just... _assumed...”_ (which yeah, Alfie thinks, given that she’s related to one Tommy Shelby, that sounds about right) “And she happened to be right, about… some things. I didn’t actually _tell_ her anything.”

And he’s so obviously _trying,_ is the thing, in this horribly stilted, roundabout kind of way that should be pathetic, but that Alfie finds endearing and also kind of heartbreaking instead. 

“Didn’t deny it, either.”

“No,” Tommy says tonelessly, and he’s looking at the ceiling again. They’ve got to be old friends by this point, Alfie thinks. Tommy Shelby with his blue eyes and his issues and his gigantic responsibility of a family. There’ll be no getting around the family, Alfie is well aware of that, not by a long shot; not if Alfie wants to continue fucking him and stare at his face over his kitchen table and argue with him about the uselessness of horses on a fundamental level.

(And he now realizes with a sinking feeling in his stomach that subconsciously, he’s been aware of this fact for a long time already – that this thing is something that’s just not going to stop if Alfie gets any say in it whatsoever. Just... not on the table, not even a distant possibility.)

“Yeah, all right,” he says. 

“Oh, seriously, _fuck_ you-”

“No, I’m fuckin’ serious,” Alfie says. “It’s, I get it. Yeah? It is what it is.”

The only remaining question is this: How the fuck did Alfie manage to willfully miss this until now? God, he’s a _moron._ He doesn’t know what’s going to happen if the Shelbys ever find out about Tommy – might be a catastrophe, might be fine in the long run – but he’s pretty fucking sure that whatever is going to happen if they ever find out about _him_ is going to be… unpleasant, to say the least. Might as well hand that rabid brother a loaded gun and tell him to get it over with, Alfie thinks resentfully. It’d be a lot quicker and a lot less humiliating than handing him _this_ kind of ammunition instead.

Next to him, Tommy casually shrugs one shoulder. 

“Didn’t realize there was anything _to_ get,” he murmurs, ears red and he is _still_ blinking up at the ceiling, but his attention is very obviously on Alfie.

“Yeah, well, ‘course you didn’t,” Alfie says, resigned. “No matter, s’all gonna be fine regardless.”

This is the bed he made for himself, he thinks – quite literally in this case – and as long as it has Tommy Shelby in it, he’s going to have to lie in it. It’s not like has a choice.

“I’m also gonna have to point out, yeah, at this particular juncture,” Alfie continues. “How fuckin’ glad I am that we managed to fuck before this whole conversation happened.”

When he looks over, Tommy is almost but not quite grinning at him, looking so obviously relieved he’s almost radiant with it – tired and disheveled, but one corner of his mouth is turned upwards, just barely, and for some fucking reason, that seems to make all the difference in the world, and fuck it all to hell, this is _hopeless,_ Alfie is so fucking gone he annoys _himself_ at this point. 

“Gonna have to call my brother,” Tommy says, and some part of Alfie is not even listening anymore, because some part of his lizard brain already wants to put him on his back and make him come again, suck him down until he's flushed all over and desperate with it... and you’d think having him in Alfie’s bed on a regular basis would dampen that impulse, wouldn’t you, but it hasn’t happened yet. 

At this point, Alfie isn’t sure if anything ever will.

“Just disappeared on them yesterday, did you?” he says as a joke and Tommy raises an eyebrow at him, the rest of his face completely impassive.

“What,” Alfie says. “Fuckin’ hell, _really?”_

Tommy shrugs, looking very pleased with himself for some reason. “Might have.”

“You actually _want_ your fuckin’ family to try and come after me? Yeah? Is that it? ‘Cause you could at least warn a man, right, that’d be the decent thing to do-”

“And you’re a big advocate for doing the decent thing, naturally.”

“Well, yes,” Alfie says, pretending to be chagrined. “I am, actually. Proper humanitarian, that’s me.”

It doesn’t quite work out, if the way Tommy is now grinning him is anything to go by. He looks loose-limbed and relieved and… maybe, possibly even kind of _happy,_ Alfie thinks, trying very hard not to grin back like an idiot. Fucking hell, he’s not cut out for this.

What the fuck is he supposed to _do_ with that kind of responsibility?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter should be titled "Alfie Solomons and the Morning Of Inconvenient Realizations."  
> Not everything is nicely wrapped up, but I feel like it's... a step in the right direction? Kind of...?  
> Talking about shit is _hard_ yo.
> 
> (Also, I'm incapable of _not_ sticking to the tried and true formula of "fucking first, questions later", apparently. Don't come for me.)
> 
> I'm [bakedapplesauce](https://bakedapplesauce.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


End file.
